The Princess of Shoreditch, Shoreditch

Gays. Originally they just wanted not to be put in jail. Kind of understandable.

But look at it now. They have a whole month to themselves.

I mean, whatever next? A gay prime minister?

Let’s face it, I’m just jealous. Black people have their own parade. Gay people have their own parade. Chinese people have their own parade. Toffs and desperate chavvy women have their own boaty parade. Racists have their own marches. But what about boring, obese, white, male virgins with large collections of string vests? What do we have? I’m not saying that I want anything up my bum but I don’t even have society’s permission to wear sequins.

Speaking of which, and I will get around to talking about lesbians at some point, oh and roast dinners, we warmed up our respective bellies yesterday with a quick trip to the wonderful Dalston Superstore, my favourite LGBTJDGENTOVHRTYGQ+ bar to watch a drag queen in a green sequin dress.

It was wonderfully dreadful, I was scared every time she walked past me, the music was the direst of dire – so bad that Spice Girls was the highlight, and we waited forever for table service for our beers – apparently service was amazing before your royal straightness turned up. Being straight is no fun any more.

It was, of course, ironically dreadful and jolly good fun.  I’ll definitely go back, and their brunch menu just looked homotastic. Maybe I should become a drag queen?

So then we went towards our roast dinner venue, The Princess Of Shoreditch, in…Shoreditch. East London, baby! Now I remember when Shoreditch was all shabby buildings, dodgy bars where anything goes, full of artists, musicians and kids rolling around the street off their head on ketamine. If you didn’t have a beard, 100 piercings and at least two drug habits, then you weren’t getting in anywhere.

Now, it’s, well…”nice”. In some parts anyway. That dreaded g-word – gentrified. And The Princess Of Shoreditch is the epitome of nice. It’s a nice pub, clean with working toilets, quite upmarket with an upmarket menu. It’s not designed for your average 2002-edition Shoreditch wreckhead. It’s for post drug-habit types, with regular 9-6 jobs, much-improved hygiene levels and for some crazy fools, steady relationships. You could even take your mum here.

The menu offered pork belly, lamb, beef or whole chicken (to be shared between two), at prices between £18 and £20. Slightly on the pricey side. I chose the cheapest option as I have vastly overspent on transsexual prostitutes this month, which was the pork belly at £18.00.

The Princess Of Shoreditch was a very welcoming venue, the modern, airy two-floor venue, clearly aimed at those wishing to eat. The welcome was replicated by the staff, who greeted us almost as if we were long-lost relatives, they genuinely seemed very pleased to see us, although my shit attempts at humour were lost on one of our servants.

Less than 10 minutes after our order was taken, our roast dinners arrived.

This blog rarely features anything weird, but I’m breaking a habit here with the parsnip, date & aged beef fat puree that was supplied. I don’t get the point of puree if you are over the age of 2 – but that’s just me being a bit simple (and too straight). At first, this was a curiosity to the taste buds, a pleasant challenge. But it quickly became very tiring and a little awkward. It tasted pretty close to toffee – a really weird start, but kudos for attempting something unusual.

I tried to sweep up the rest of the puree with my cabbage so nothing else on the plate would be affected but it didn’t help. The cabbage was a little softer than average and a little more nondescript than cabbage can be.

I won’t make a good lesbian either, will I? I was mulling the idea over the other week with one of my regular dining companions, but when I realised the genitalia amendments required, I decided against it. Of course, I could…shall I just get back to the roast dinner review?

There was one long carrot too, split vertically in half and roasted. Perfectly roasted too, with generous helpings of chives.   If you wanna be my lover.

Guess what else was roasted? Roast potatoes. They were actually crispy on the outside. They weren’t freshly cooked but seemed to have been cooked pretty recently, roasted in beef fat, really tasty, crunchily crispy on the outside and pretty fluffy on the inside. The best I have had for a while, perhaps the best I have had in London so far.

The Yorkshire pudding was sizeable, though a little more crispy than my personal tastes prefer. One of my accomplices, however, said it was perfect. Make of that what you will.

On the way to the establishment, we walked through Ravey Street. Which rhymes with gravy. So my hopes of good gravy were high, at least until I realised that it was a more upmarket joint. Yes, we received jus. And just a tiny bit. We asked for more, and received one tiny jug to share. We asked for more again.

I prefer vegetable Bisto to jus. I simply don’t get it. But I’m northern. And not homosexual enough. As far as jus goes, it was good – a deep-throated red wine jus. But I’d have much preferred a bog-standard gravy.  You can take the boy out of Hull…City Of Culture.

Maybe I could become a mermaid? Imagine living in a sea of gravy.  Zig a zig ahhh.

Apparently it’s a thing nowadays, people get dressed up as mermaids and enter mermaid competitions. Even men.

I hope you appreciate the educational aspects of my roast dinner reviews.

Last but definitely not least, the pork belly. Yes there is still food to talk about. Three slices around 7mm thick each, absolutely sumptuous. Perfectly crispy on top, with the pork itself a picture of succulence. This was pretty damn divine. I did also try a bite of the lamb, and the beef – both were good but not a patch on the belly. This was wow territory.

This is a tricky roast dinner to score. There were aspects that I was not keen on – namely the puree and the jus, but in other areas it was outstanding, particularly the roasties and the belly. I suspect that if you prefer your rugby without tries and think Pimm’s is an acceptable alcoholic beverage then you would enjoy this very good roast dinner even more than I did.

But I have to score it on my level of satisfaction, not on what I think someone else might feel, and so I am going to give it a very healthy 7.94 out of 10.

Next weekend will be a much cheaper affair as I have badly overspent. Unless anyone wants to sponsor my page? Maybe Asda do roast dinners?  Or maybe I should become a drag queen – anyone know if it pays well?

Actually, fuck becoming a drag queen – £48 a green sequin dress costs.  Maybe I could become a flamingo?